Call it inexperienced bravado of cub lions, or simply a little over the top with liquor, when the two adolescent rascals began the assault on the rigging gear, an imaginary mountain. Almost immediately, the ice-cold straps of iron bars seeped through Shug’s courage, and hands, compelling him to stop short of his own height up the man-made shaft. “The games a boggy” he sputtered, then disappeared into the close. Bob, although he was no ‘Nepalese Sherpa’…dauntingly decided to go on

Having no clue how long, Bob achieved the top, looked round to breathe crisp air into his lungs filling up and bellowing freedom, thinking his must be how Sir Edmund Hillary felt. Instead of entering his shared bedroom, Bob climber across the slates onto the top of the roof, savouring the view and lighting a cigarette.

Alcohol logic induced Bob to believe, the back of the building was a good place to be, in the middle of the night, as the police after leaving Cragie St station, would patrol, Victoria Rd. At that height he could hide from this panther force. The naked truth was merely a naked glow was very easy to see, in the dead of a dark night… such is fate. Hardly any time had passed when Bob could hear gruff shouting, seemingly coming from down below. Slipping down the slates, onto the rear of the rigging, there was no black void because a mass of powerful beaming torches was cantered on him

Now the crotchety voice became audible, booming out instructions to return downward through the backs top close window via the scaffolding. This would be the stair’s heed window just below Bob’s landing. Even due to the amount consumption of distilled ‘Water of Life’ earlier, he knew right away he was in some sort of trouble. Then, and only then, he wondered where Shug was. Instantly, his mind sharply focused how this was the police and he should really do what they were demanding him to.

Bob made his shaky slow-motion way down, literary sliding into the many dark blue arms of the law, hauled into the top open window, straight into the landing. Interrogations started there and then with why he was trying to rob the off-licence and where was his accomplice. He could not think straight, or how he could break into the off-licence that was at least five closes away and on the ground. He challenged his accusers with confidence, stating his digs, top flat left-hand door.

While they hung over Bob’s small frame, another member of the force brought up this dirty old coat, saying, “This is your mate’s…where the f--- is he?”. The garment had obviously been rescued from the midden down stairs, and even in his blurry state, answered sharp as a razor; “I wouldn’t be seen dead with a guy who wore coat as mankie and mingin… it could walk by its self… if you don’t believe me, ask my landlord for that is his door up the stairs!”

He carried on explaining how he had only gone out of the close’s window, to enter his bedroom window, so saving disturbing his landlord, who was a baker with ‘Mothers Pride’ having an early rise in the morning, and this and only this was the reason for his somewhat peculiar behaviour.

At this a policeman did knock at the McCall’s house rather loudly for the hour of midnight had well and truly passed…. he reached for a second round of chaps. Eddie the landlord, weary head peeped through a half ajar door. After the major question had been put to him… he answered in his usual understanding Highland way, ‘Yes’ the ‘Pratt’ stays here as a lodger, and if Bob was being arrested, he had no monies bail him out…and then he was gone.

The police looked around lost, bewailed and undecided as what to do, following each other to the banister, then down the stairs without another word or even glance in Bob’s direction. To his regret, he let loose words coming out defiantly… even mockingly “Well what about me then?”. These few desperate words were to cost Bob the prickly sum of £5, known notorious throughout Scotland’s badlands, as ‘Causing a public nuisance’…. but no criminal record,

Shug never owned up to his part in this dark affair and both Sybil and Eddy as land lady and lord never held it against Ben…Bless then.

The only way to personal salvation, as far as I can see, is to have cerebral toleration, within Thee. [size="4"][/size]

peter.howden

Posted 9th Dec 2018, 06:40pm

The tales of Hector and ‘The Bruce’

Walking back

Queens park is the home of fabulous Hill Sixty, where generation after generation of fine courting couples, cuddled and coddled inside grass nests of all ages. For Hector, a distant past reminder of halcyon days for a succession of boys, devoted to acting as cowboys and Indians, around its top boulders. Most boys then also played football and for them to hear the famous ‘Hamden Roar’, gratis, was a cherish moment never forgotten

Hector very first Best Mate, ‘The Bruce’, who lived in Pollokshaws Road right across from the park. Both of them met up with 10 to 12 teenagers in the Brookland café, at the corner of Minard Rd and Frankford St. Two regular girls waited tables, Helen and Betty, Helen with a fine hour glass figure particularly sticking out for attention of adolescents. Above all else, they were good to our unofficial group, allowing them to sit, many a night, with just a few coke bottles on show for far longer that the proprietor Tony, would have wished.

The boy members felt liberated, free to conquer all before them, truly imagined all girls would melt in their acquaintance of worldly ways. The blokes thought they were in tiptop prime, discovering the glories of sex complete with all its hidden wonders, nevertheless they were novices at best. Knowing the basics through tell tales, or someone’s interpretation of the dictionary or to what they had been told by their enlightened parents or even better by slightly older teenagers.

Hector was lucky, his much older brother, had been liberal explaining facts as they stood. Everything from the proper names, diagrams and information could be used to educate the scholar of any degree. The trouble was that, although he had all the theory behind him in great abundance, but possessed just as much ignorance, as all the rest, to actually how to go about it. Akin to ‘Morecombe and Wise’…” the facts are all …but perhaps not in the right order?”

‘The Bruce’ and Hector were not really ordinary blokes when it came to the looks department, and according to early photo’s (pictures don’t lie) well below par. They realized quickly, there were guys better looking than themselves, such as a fella called Graham Love, who could have stood in for Cliff Richard when he had gone to Shawlands Cross Church for Christmas service, wearing pink socks, Cliff not Graham.

The fault in the looks department, didn’t really deter them from the Cooper’s Institute, a local Saturday rave, tying with the opposite sex, although ‘The Bruce’s’ immediate chat up line was strange, asking the creed they followed. It’s no secret, the faith of his would-be partner, was paramount to the success of the evening…which seldom happened. Looking back, both were shy, Hector managed quickly to re balance while ‘The Bruce’ stayed insecure and deliberate almost to an insulting point.

One night at the Cooper’s institute. Hector and ‘The Bruce’ managed to grab the attention of two girls. One girl Hector knew stayed local, the other he asked if he could walk her home. When the dance ended the other girl, and ‘The Bruce’ sauntered to the trolleybus stop. Hector’s date motioned to cross the road for her transport which was unfortunately a bus to Eaglesham. On arriving at her house, they were just getting comfortable when the father came out, in a grumpy manner.

The girl sharply informed Hector, they had caught the last bus, and he would have to walk. Hector had no choice but to react as a proper gentleman… started to walk back the 10 miles or so, when the rain burst open it’s almighty wants.

Arriving home drenched to the skin, while undressing, switched on his wee tranny, playing; Helen Shapiro, belting out…” Walkin’ back to happiness’…that certainly made his day? [/size][size="3"]

peter.howden

Posted 8th Dec 2018, 09:53pm

A Knight Tale

Around the ending medieval times, stretching towards the beginning of the Middle ages, the origin of eternal tales of daunting heroic deeds protecting castle strongholds, inconsistent wars, and splendid attired royalty being on every passing minstrel tongue. A true knight of the realm, titled Paladin, took part in trial by combat, fought in tournaments, trained hawks to soar, but religiously endeavouring to live a chivalrous code of life…expecting the same from his squires, his family, cliques and tenants, while life for the serfdom was a fraught survival

On the other hand, as girls from wealthy families, either married very young or forced into a nunnery, while sibling boys, training to be a knight, was anything other than valiant, starting from age seven as apprenticed pages to older knights, trained austerely night and day, for up to 15 years. They were nothing but property to the ruling class, as was all within, and out with the walls of the citadel

In the interior of a certain castle, lived and practiced, a doctor who did not maintain pious duties such as monks in the monasteries, but was just as virtuous, upholding the Hippocratic oath, especially for the poor, and for the peasant serfdom, working the lands of the Paladin. Unlike plague doctors, or so-called quack sawbone surgeons hocus-pocus, with primitively mixed astrology, religion and magic gripping on to superstitions from before time was known to begin.

The doctor heard through the grapevine, one desperate serf was almost dying, needed a miracle to save his family from starvation. Several epidemics scourged the village and surroundings in the past, with horror instincts of the population boarding up the flimsy dwellings, with the family imprisoned, the practice in these dark days. Undeterred the medical man removed the barring obstacles swiftly, checked is near deluded patient. Within minutes the doc diagnosed a vomiting ailment caused by forced eating rankin rotten meat…there was a slow cure consisting of plenty fresh water supply, but vitally… radical herbs only known and owned by the abbeys.

Word got back to the knight who forbade the doctor treating the impertinent serf as he was the lowest of the low. Later just per chance, the knight began grief from severe stomach-gripes, thinking he was dying. The doc, being cleverly gifted, the chance to explain to his master in arms, how it would be prudent to experiment on the nave first, in case anything goes wrong …and if successful, it would be safe for him to use.

The now not so courteous knight gamely agreed, because to the Paladin, the serf was less than human, while the Physician, serving his inward pledge, fulfilled a humble ambition by gaining permission, and a permit for herbs, from the all ruling noble. Totally oblivious to his real reasons and devotion, the knight gave instruction to the priory, immediate issue of herbs to the medical practitioner…on the assumption he was a loyal servant… to him.

Within a few days it was obvious the real patient was recovering with the help of the herbs, also the dedication of the Doctor of Medicine selfishly on duty for 48 hours, seldom leaving the bedside. A bulletin was conveyed to the suffering Knight, that the Doc would be personally handling his medication…with the knowledge of a full recovery…totally guaranteed.

The royalty proclaimed Paladin Knight was unaware of two things…one, he was never in any medical danger, just a rather over active tummy-ache …two, what he received in his sickbed as a cure…had no medical qualities what so ever sore

peter.howden

Posted 6th Dec 2018, 08:58pm

Perhaps Last Trip;

‘She who must be obeyed’ and I, previously booked a room in Seamills House Hotel, with an eye-catching view of the ‘Isle of Arran’ in all its splendour. Travelling down was grand and sunny regardless being late season, giving an extra bonus of a pleasant vision. After visiting some well kent local surroundings, followed by a cosy intimate moment sharing an Indian meal, and for me, a few slight refreshments, then the slow drive back at the hotel.

Rebecca retired to bed to watch some Sci-fi movie on the massive T.V screen, as I took a saunter along the sands. The mixture of near total darkness, rhythmic beating waves, that seaweed fragrance, and grand image of Arran across the waters, was just out of this world. To increase the enjoyment, and perhaps to keep out the chill, I decided to partake in a few sips of the golden ‘water of life’ from Uncle David’s cherished flask, adding to my comfortable mood…simply sublime.

Through the mist of this inspirational disposition came a unique vocal sound. Turning around to find my mentor Peewee, in haughtily stance as the full moon shone majestically on his fine feathers, allowing him the air of grace he justifiably deserved.

“Hallo” he said; for he could talk, though seemingly only I could hear him, and if truth be told, I alone could really see him. Strangely, the grand master Peewee would appear when I was in Saltcoats, after my a few refreshments at local inns, explaining he took his holidays in around Saltcoats seashore areas… who was I to doubt him?

‘Hallo’ I replied, adding I was taking a quick break. Peewee butted in about his latest visited Paris. In the past I was well aware how vital Peewee to the 1295 Auld Alliance. This magical adviser/guardian to all its past Lord Provosts of Glasgow, and before such an office existed, flying to the French city, as a sort of Ambassador of the humble Glaswegian.

Peewee has no need for passports and the like, with an added advantage of being able to pick the best places to roost in Paris, depending what event is on.

He is welcomed with the same high-esteem he commands in George Square though he is not by any means perfect. After all this time, is still tongue-tied by the spoken vocabulary, openly admitted to me on this trip mistaken the language due to variable dialogs and emphases on certain words and instead of ordering a flightless journey (to give his wings a rest) received a waist vibrator to firm up muscles. The advert actually stated; ‘To fly away extra pounds and fight flabby fat’ and all it did was ruffle Peewee’s superb plumage.

His grumbling became tougher, “The one thing which is staring you in the face is how walkers are annoyed about individual bird droppings.” “Well… maybe not in the face, more on their soles”, crossly adding when realizing I was not about to interrupt; “it’s not ‘Oui-Oui’ in Paris, but Doggy Poo…by the ton” he remarked quickly.

Peewee was disgusted, not a pretty sight or one you would wish to wake up to…so I took another few sips out of the flask, for support while he frankly spoke, “I checked to see if the warning posters were in the correct written language, no jargon to confuse any breed of canine… so the only conclusion I can come too, the mutts of Paris are truly ignorant and they will keech Willy Nilly, regardless of notice or just maybe the hounds just can’t read!”....shit

Peewee maybe a feathered friend academic, but sometimes I think he is out of the loop, now seemingly sliding into a slight huff , so I attempted to insert a little hilarity, stating what I thought was obvious… the notices posted were not at eye level with the four legged culprits.

Peewee ignored my humourist remark with a sheer delightful statement “I had the best view in the whole of Paris, for the 1903 Tour De France final after 6 stages”. “some thought it was a rare tear…but I can’t phantom the fun cycling like the devil for three weeks, just to cross the finishing line around the same time” When pigeons race, we are miles in front as winners… all for an extra till of seeds” combined Peewee in speech and thought. “As for the complaint of drug taking during the competition; I cannot comment” said Peewee “for I myself have peaked at an aspirin”

Just then, I casually glanced up towards the sparkling millions of star and galaxies, in wonder way beyond my imagination, while taking another sip, or two of golden nectar… turning around to speak to Peewee… he was gone. A tinge of sadness fell, then a warm glow manifested itself deep inside me, just as I took another semi gulp of the “Water of life” … for sustenance. The deep radiance within, allowed me to reason, Aw wheesht, there will be another time… or so I hoped... walking to the hotel… alone. -=-=-=-=-=[size="4"][/size]

peter.howden

Posted 4th Dec 2018, 04:13pm

A nomadic ponder

It’s not an auld Glasgow wives-tale, but raw fact, how uniquely celebrated Glaswegians are for being extremely friendly to strangers or wanderers or even vagabonds, especially at bus and tram stop queues. Before the silent trolleybus or rickety old tram arrived, almost all the inevitable line was chatting away as old friends, with portly elderly ladies almost knowing commuters intimately. Now regrettably, this no longer can be a Glaswegian’s claim to such fame…as this fascinating community talent is lost… locked away only in the history books…hopefully not forever …but don’t hold your breath

This is no slant on the auld alliance enjoyable experience over the years exploring France, and its fabulous wonders. Paris being the bees-knees, and other major cities…but particularly in southern district in a medieval village…magic. The speedy T.G.V, railway expeditions being a roving learning curve, attempting the French language and enjoying the French humour. Growing and festering in recent voyages, the French public feverously gained the universal need to wear earphones in contact anywhere elsewhere isolated me, regardless of any willingness just to pass the time

It is tragic enough this magic phenomenon…the internet, connecting anyone, anywhere in the for corners of the world, has made our last generation, choose to be locked alone in invisible separate cells, unable and unwilling to physically socialize around unknown people…by making idle simple conversation. Mothers hurling babies and toddlers, are constantly talking into the phone while toddlers over 2 have a tiny computer to keep them quite, taking the place of the nasty old fashion dirty dummy…

Early traveling along 38E bus, crowded with all sorts of workers making their way to work, standing bunched up, all shapes and positions, just so to use their phones

On any trip, I seem to be the only one looking out at the scenery. Traveling down to Ayr many a time, both by bus and train, wondering what will make fellow passengers on public transport, stop individuals raise their heads, remove their personal earphones for phones/iPad/ computers, to become aware of the fantastic life around them…. Which will not get me arrested by the authorities. -=-=-=-[size="4"][/size]

peter.howden

Posted 1st Dec 2018, 01:56pm

. My Chronicles 01/12/2018

Aunt Becky’s birthday is on the 5th December and a sedate wee ‘Do’ is planned to be held in the residential home, simply because it makes sense. Aunt Becky is certainly not as nimble as she was and steadily more delicate as time marches on. The home will supply the cake, it’s a tradition on anyone’s birthday, a big cake is baked, then given to every resident. As long as I remember the prized ‘Irn Bru’ I will be O.K. also perhaps she may have a glimmer of who we are, however, the chances are low…but who knows.

I am quite fascinated looking in the mirror to shave this morning… have lost my man Boobs. This may sound awfully rude, but I have just realized this phenomenon possibly due to losing some weight, but the strange thing is…how did they get there in the first place. ‘She who must be obeyed’ in a cruel streak I must add, suggested some time ago, I should buy a bra…as they wobble…uncontrollable. How I’m so grateful, Rebecca can focus on my emotional points, allowing the ability that opens up her passions

Other bits are going too such as fading memory, squinty eyesight and hearing. Apparently, I’m not too bad in the sound department, quavering on the verge though with a loss of high-toned vibration, so…I’m now the proud owner of a neat hearing aid. All I need to do is to learn to listen…and hurrying on before ‘She who must be obeyed’ has more to add.

We were gong to Braehead tomorrow, though changed plans means this will have to wait. Instead my plan is to head for Dom and Janet’s house. ‘Dom’ is one of the original members of Benghazi Mice, back in 87, now has Dementia on top of his Parkinson’s disease which he has had for many a year now. His quip is legendary…” I knew I had Parkinson’s because I kept interviewing everybody!” …magic stuff…magic guy.

Good news on the phone…our Grand-daughter in Biggleswade, has a job kept when returning from celebrating Christmas and Ne’erday, with family in Glasgow [size="4"][/size]

peter.howden

Posted 30th Nov 2018, 06:01pm

Liquid Gold (10) The End;

The situation was dire as Mr ‘C’ slowly squeezing the trigger, badly wanting to kill the rat quisling, glancing for a second while looking at Pandora’s body language, her lips pleading to stop, he hesitated, then lowered the revolver, turning to face Pandora, he asked why she wished to give mercy to this smarmy bastard betrayer.

Pandora let fall her head as if in prayer, lifted her brow in seemingly enlightenment, saying softly, “to execute him would be mercy, as my name, I am vengeance…retribution gives opulence beyond imagination …this is my route for existence”. She pauses, turns around hiding her facial expression, as if in private; “unlike aspirational sister; ‘Hope’, the other side of the coin... I have no soul…It will do no harm to one’s of knowledge …but will pierce the very depths of the darkened peoples… where ever they are?”.

Unobserved Mr “G”, managed to his feet, made a dash to the open, pathetically screaming “Help I’m being …” not one more syllable left his lip, he fell unwillingly sprawled across the floor, with the help of an antique fire extinguisher walloped across his nut. “That will take the heat of the moment” cracked the leader, smiling as he added “That’s for him letting his vicious guards use me like a bladder” The leader had no such elusions watching Mr “G” playing the frightened prisoner whilst just waiting for an open opportunity to practices his deceptions and flees.

This violent disorder centralized around the traitor as Mr ‘C’ turned to Pandora. He was thunderstruck for she had vanished…standing in the exact position…was the totty girl called ‘Hope’. Without permitting any form of inter-communication she swiftly uttered, “yes we are...both sides of the same coin?” The girl had a mystery gaze about her which Mr ‘C’ had not seen previously. He was about to ask an obvious question but once again stopped, as if she was under the influence of some kind of ancient spell

Delicately opened up her garment, revealing a small clear sphere; the added very delicately “The power points of this fragile planet; Shetland, Stonehenge; Skellig Islands; Serpent Mount and the Black hills, may now be impossible to reach… but I hold their gargantuan power within”. In a flutter an eyelid …she was gone, leaving Mr ‘C’ asking “What was that… a fairy tale…or an allusion?”.

The leader was going to say he had the wrong end of the message …. but thought better of it. He did tell Mr ‘C’ his fighting group will grow stronger to carry on with the cause… never give way to malicious for its own sake. Mr ‘C’ strongly with real compassion, shook both the leader’s huge hands, leaving his small group with the traitor in toe.

Pure excitement can’t help taking over his body and nerves, always happens every Saturday, having done so for well over a year when he will see, at Boot’s Corner, the most gorgeous girl this side of Scotland. Boot’s corner does not really exist now, but it is the place where true lovers met, where some poor soul had a dizzy, but not him, because she always turns up at the very same time every Saturday. As he dances and warbles like ‘Tony’ singing “Something’s coming” from the fabulous film ‘West Side Story’, he had a feeling tonight will be the night, changing their lives forever.

Just for reassurance, if reassurance was needed, he checks once again to make sure the ring is in its case, and the case is secure in his right pocket of his jacket, for tonight might just turn out be the most magical night ever to make his life complete. Love blossomed from the very first moment he laid eyes on her angelic smiling face, complete with her bubbling personality, however…he has never been able to enlighten his deepest desires, prevented because of his tongue-tied shyness when he becomes serious.

Every Saturday, straight after work, his schedule is a methodical timetable, shower then talc, aftershave, then dressing with carefully ironed shirt and tie… and cufflinks to match, his best light blue suit. His whole attire completed with immaculate shinny shoes. Phones the usual taxi company and travels into the city centre clutching the precious wee red jewellery box.

Walking towards the ‘Hielanman's Umbrella’ from Buchanan Street end of Argyle St, he is on time and he can see her standing there on the same meeting point as usual. He slows down and stops… for she has not seen him. He waits for a few moments taking a check on reality. Suddenly she is beaming, smile over smile while running open armed towards another fella and they intimately hug… walk hand in hand past him

He was hoping, as he has every time, that this Saturday the guy would not turn up and he could then introduce himself properly, but she does not know him…yet? If that other guy would just take a rain check, or give her a dizzy, he could step in and take her to the pictures or something. He knows she would fall for him, if introduced the right way just like he did for her, but this other guy makes it impossible.

For just that moment he is the saddest man in the world.

Turning around he is secure in the knowledge that fate will make their meeting…it’s just a question of when…maybe next Saturday?![size="4"][/size]

peter.howden

Posted 28th Nov 2018, 08:05am

Liquid Gold; Penultimate, (9)

It may seem strange how dapper agent Mr ‘C’, remained motionless, except for an almost untraceable smirk, while peculiar bizarre discussions, and hostile pronouncements were being made …still, something in his in-scene tranquillity, which may be conceited knowledge of the full state of play. Just a couple of stingy blocks away, with the protection of near darkness Minx, disclosing her top covert code while releasing the bonds from her captive. He nodded, she nodded as he added extra communication code which has to remain a secret…even to the reader.

Speaking softly to Mr ‘C’, explaining her code name ‘Pandora, like the myth, her heart was black for revenge, but now the time has come to annihilate the traitor, through deserved excruciating pain. She gave Mr ‘C’ a firearm, and without another word, they both knew they were going back for evil Mr ‘G’. once close to the makeshift camp, Pandora and Mr ‘C’ moved apart, positioned himself almost an arm’s length from the ruckus

Is a very short space in time, Mr ‘G’ face distorted, showing plain fear unfolding, now he had lost his command, leaving him almost near psychotic. He refused to relieve the task force as instructed by a superior, instead set up a makeshift brazier… stoking red hot rods wretchedly inflicted on the four remaining prisoners’, ear-piercing martyrs entertaining a single deranged delusion. Mr’C witnessed these poor wrenched humans’ limbs, naked bodies and crumpled feet had lost movement other than painful shuffling when ordered. One poor crumpled soul was called for by the now crazy lunatic

The pistol packing quisling’s brazier grid opened swinging right back, squeal let out by an inhuman voice could never be match by anything living or dead. The man just stood frozen yet terrified beyond reason. His eyes never lost their gaze going straight into the centre of the stove. The terror mounted as his stare could not alter, the dread could be seen by all because of Mr ‘Involuntary trembling. Without warning or any visible sign of aid or help, the grid slowly shut… suddenly it was closed.

The turncoat good hand fell to his side, releasing the grip on the threatening weapon. It dropped clumsily to the floor. Then as a memorized soldier Mr “G” fell to his knees and let out a final wail of utter disbelief. No one moved until Mr ‘C’ rushed around grabbed the revolver from the floor. Without any feeling Mr ‘C’ crashed the weapon against the kneeling man’s bare scull, sending him crumbling to the floor.

Total void of sound emptied into the musky air, as the feral conclusion was hesitantly held…while Mr ‘C’ mentally considered if he should shoot dead Mr ‘G’…or not.

peter.howden

Posted 28th Nov 2018, 08:03am

My apologies for being a silly old twit

Liquid Gold;(8)

Minx Jarr Several staunch protestors attempted to resist being coxswained as burden beasts, but were overpowered by machine gun guards, as all other eyes were intimidated by raving Mr ‘G’, wielding an imaginary sceptre. Apart from Mr ‘C’, no one noticed a sharply curved immaculate dapper female, entering the homemade arena, sauntered ever so casually up to the wooden box being used as a podium by the vocal turncoat. Silence fell as a robust undaunted voice hovering over the muddle; “Have you a problem with these troglodytes Mr ‘G’?”.

For a vague moment, the traitor was dumbfounded, then sulkily smiled, “Minx Jarr!” with a slight quiver in the tone, “why are we privileged with your presence?”. looking around in a distaste manner, the striking Minx Jarr responded…” They; are certainly not happy at all with you Mr ‘G’…but I’m here to make amends your failures!”. “Just a matter of interest” she enquired, “have you detained her, you know… the wee scraggy girl named ‘Hope’… and returned what she stole from here?” concluding in a higher pitch.

As a rule, Mr ‘G’ didn’t show any kind of concern , but…just a hint crossed his worried brow, he just couldn’t figure out how the hell she knew what just happened just 10 minutes ago, as casual as he could be said “sound as a pound, as the old saying goes” almost choking out the last word…”what I mean, it’s all in hand.” Almost mockingly, Minx swung around, “I really don’t think so, Mr, with twice the force, you have a group of ‘ten a penny’ pitiful reformers, plus the exclusive Mr ‘C’ … but you have not got the evidence of a new world …have you? because I have them here!” She pulls out the two, life changing Liquid Gold containers, to the astonishment of all…but more so Mr ‘G’

Hastily, and unconvincingly, he stutters, “Once we are rid of these cretins, there is no problem…no one will know, as for that wee besom?”, hesitatingly sorts of asks, rather than tells. “The news of its existence is already around half the dome…including the regime… stupid bugger you”, barks back Minx, with utter contempt and firmness in her tone, “I will take these containers, and the bothersome Mr’C’ to headquarters, and try to rescue this farce!”. “You may as well release these men, get rid of your task force, but you stay right here till I return...all right…can you manage that?” sarcastically rather than with concern.

With most of the activist away into the gloomy dark before Minx and Mr ‘C’ left the area.

Once they had gone, Mr “G” awkwardly pulled out his revolver, waved it menacingly preventing four wounded men’s leaving, who now beyond doubt expected to be shot, or worse still… to be tortured. [/size][size="4"]

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